


Nominal Titles

by Enfleurage



Category: Airwolf
Genre: Community: sharp_teeth, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfleurage/pseuds/Enfleurage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for debirlfan's Macabre March Madness prompt: Hawke and Archangel survive a helicopter crash in the wilderness and must rely on each other to survive. That's the least of their problems - the real problem is that someone (or something) is hunting them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [debirlfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/debirlfan/gifts).



> This is a standalone story, completely outside of the canon I've developed within the A/W stories posted on ff.net under penname Enfleurage, and not my usual genre. This was written for debirlfan, who is my beta reader and my encouragement to keep at the A/W stories.

Chapter One

 _“Ow….”_

At least that’s what he thought he’d said, but what he heard sounded something a lot more like “Ergfh…”

“As articulate as always,” answered a familiar and distant voice. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Hawke. I was beginning to think you were going to make me do all of this myself.”

Hawke raised his eyelids to half-mast, let them dip and then slowly cranked them until they were fully open. The light seemed sideways somehow, for which he was grateful because it was overly bright: sunlight was glinting off a sea of glass in which he seemed to be sitting and reflecting off the main rotor blade resting across the nose of the helicopter, just in front of where the windshield used to be.

He blinked again and ran horrified eyes over the entirety of the blade, which was not only in the wrong damn place, it was a good deal shorter than it should be. One tip disappeared somewhere off and down to his right; a jagged edge to his left rested only a few feet in the air above the cockpit.

He lifted a hand, wiped his mouth and it came away bloody. His eyes slipped out of focus for a brief second and he watched his hand wipe itself on the thigh of his jeans, as if the hand was making decisions entirely on its own. Head full of static, he moved it slowly and very carefully as he glanced around the interior of cockpit, across instrument panels that were cracked and in some cases, slightly scorched, wiring hanging loosely like Christmas garland draped across the pilot and co-pilot’s seat….

He squinted at the empty co-pilot’s seat.

“How’s your head?” said a voice directly behind him.

He turned to his right, far too quickly according to the sharp pain in his neck and the sudden sway inside his head.

“Wha’ hapned…?”

“We crashed,” Briggs said, leaning forward to peer closely at Hawke’s face though the open hatch to the right. “Hmmm. Your pupils don’t look unequal but your eyes are not focusing properly.”

Hawke could have told him that.

The rest of his body was starting to report, slow waves of dull aches that sharpened as he moved a leg, a foot, an arm or his shoulders.

“I’m not entirely sure but I wouldn’t move your….”

Hawke startled himself when he screamed.

“…right ankle,” Briggs said, sucking in an audible wince. “I think that one’s broken.”

There was now even more blood on his lip from where he’d bitten it but as he rode out the pulses of agony, he managed to notice that there was something not right about Briggs. Hawke struggled to get his eyes to focus jointly, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“You ‘kay?”

“Alive and grateful for it. I didn’t think we’d get down in one piece.”

The hatch protested with a loud creak as Briggs pulled it fully open so that he could lean in and run a hand over Hawke’s ankle. Bracing himself against the expected pain, Hawke was grateful for Briggs’ light touch.

“It’s pretty swollen. Your boot is stabilizing it fairly well but I think it’s too tight and could cut off circulation.” Briggs’ head was level with Hawke’s knee and he glanced back up at Hawke, frowning. “I’m going to loosen the laces a bit, so you might want to grab hold of something.”

Hawke instinctively reached for the cyclic, sighing at it came away in his hand.

“Your glasses…”

“Broken.” Briggs grimaced. “This may hurt a bit….”

The pain was sudden but mercifully brief as all he saw was black.


	2. Two

A throbbing in his lower right leg was the first thing he noticed, followed almost immediately by warmth, the smell of wood smoke, and the sharp crack of pine sap in burning wood. The wood smoke was comfort and warmth, almost enough to banish the smell of electrical smoke that still lingered in his nostrils. For a moment he thought he was home; then he shifted and the rekindled pain brought back the memory of coming around in broken glass and fried circuitry.

He was surprised when he opened his eyes. He’d expected that the wood fire would herald nightfall but the late summer afternoon sun came in at an angle through the trunks of the trees and it was almost pleasant to wake, as if after a nap, stretched out on the ground, with a white suit jacket covering his upper body and his right leg resting atop a coil of 10,000 pound rope.

Briggs was sitting on the ground on the other side of the fire, sorting through the papers from his briefcase, tossing most into a stack near his feet and folding one or two into small origami like bits before tucking them into his trouser pockets.

 _Useful for kindling,_ Hawke thought. And then, _he’s going to burn everything that’s classified._

Behind Briggs, there was an orderly arrangement of items from the helicopter: the toolbox, bits of wire and hardware, another coil of rope, a ground tarp, some lubricating spray, flashlight, charts, first aid kit with the lid partly opened, three life vests, fire extinguisher, two small bottles of water and what looked like a knife in a sheath. Briggs had also found Hawke’s pistol and it was on the ground next to the briefcase, within close reach but not too near the fire.

“You’ve been busy,” Hawke said, voice not much more than a raspy croak.

Briggs didn’t look up from the final group of papers he was sorting.

“Uh-huh,” he said, tossing most of it into the pile. “Assessing our assets and liabilities.” As he tucked the last piece of folded paper into his pocket, he squinted across the fire at Hawke. “I’m sorry about the ankle. You passing out wasn’t something I’d expected but it was probably easier on you.”

Hawke nodded, still a little unnerved. Briggs without his glasses on looked oddly different. The white eye patch seemed to somehow emphasize the gray in his hair; Briggs looked older or maybe he was just as sore and bruised as Hawke felt.

“Does your phone work?”

Briggs shook his head.

“Tried it a few times. No luck. I’m going to take it out of the case and see if any wires or components were shaken loose or damaged in the crash.” He sent Hawke a slight smile. “It would be a damn shame to lug a satellite phone around on a almost daily basis for years and have it not work the one time I _really_ need it.”

“Michael…” Hawke had to clear his throat to speak, but he’d already glanced at the supplies piled up and with a sinking heart, he noted that there wasn’t much water and wasn’t any food. “I don’t remember the crash. Fill me in.”

Briggs sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I was reading some of the case files so I didn’t see the weather come up. When I looked up, we were already in the soup, which surprised me because the radar weather reports didn’t mention any precipitation, much less thunderstorms or wind shear. You told me it’d blown up out of nowhere.”

Hawke forced his mind back to Van Nuys, to the weather report he pulled as a regular part of his flight planning.

“Forecast called for VFR the whole route,” he grumbled, more disconcerted than he’d like to admit that he didn’t remember any of what Briggs was saying.

“Yeah,” Briggs said agreeably. “Well, we hit a squall line that wasn’t in the forecast, got bounced around, hit some wind shear and the next thing I knew we were in the trees.”

Briggs exaggerated plenty when it suited him, but he was also prone to understatement about horrific situations after the fact or when there wasn’t much that could be done to change the outcome. Hawke was pretty sure this was one of those situations.

“Snapped the mains in the trees?”

“We were almost on the ground actually.” Briggs grimaced. “Hawke, I don’t want to alarm you but we didn’t get a mayday call out before going down. I tried – you were far too busy trying to keep us in the air – but never connected with any Air Traffic control, even with another aircraft. It’s very possible that squall pushed us off course and frankly I don’t know for sure if we’re in Montana, Idaho, Washington, or if we crossed over into Canadian air space.”


	3. Three

Briggs had strung a rope between two trees and draped the ground tarp over the rope, rigging an A-frame tent using some more rope and some rocks to tie down the sides of the tarp. Hawke made do with a life vest as a pillow for his head, another to elevate his ankle and Briggs’ suit jacket as a blanket. With the onset of darkness and the warmth from the nearby fire that Briggs had kept going, he’d slept harder and far more soundly than he had expected.

It was dark when he woke, achy and confused. Rolling over turned out to be a bad idea as his ankle shrieked pain up his leg and through every nerve in his body. Even his teeth hurt and Hawke blinked back tears and moved his jaw around violently mouthing the words he wanted to shout. He made enough noise that Briggs glanced over his right shoulder and raised a finger to his mouth.

He levered himself up on an elbow, watching Briggs who sat on the remaining life vest, leaning back against one of the tent’s anchor trees, head cocked, shoulders tight and alert, right hand resting on Hawke’s .45 millimeter. From inside the tent, with a fire skewing his ability to determine exactly how dark it was, it was impossible to judge the relative pitch of night, but in the woods around his cabin, the birds usually started the morning chorus around four which made it some time earlier than that. It was probably long past the time he should have taken over the watch and let Briggs get some sleep.

After a few seconds of silent breathing and casting his hearing, he heard something moving through the brush to their left. He held his breath, focusing his ears on estimating location and his mind on judging relative size. Whatever it was seemed to be moving on a slanting parallel path to their makeshift camp. It was still to their left and the sounds did not grow louder as if it was moving nearer, nor did they dramatically lessen as if it was moving away. Instead it sounded as if it was moving in a constant direction that stayed on their left, perhaps angling to some place in front of where he faced. And from the amount of crashing brush and the volume from the twigs snapping underfoot, it sounded big.

A buck might be the right size and frankly, the best option he could come up with sitting in the dark listening to whatever it was continue to push through the woods nearby. In his experience, deer weren’t really nocturnal, preferring dawn and dusk, but they were far preferable to the other large creatures that might be in this forest: elk could be nocturnal, moose usually were and so were bears. If they were lucky, the animal might just be passing through. Even if it were curious about the fire and the smells of humans, it probably wouldn’t linger or investigate.

After a few minutes of strained listening, it sounded as if the animal, whatever it was, was continuing to move, not coming any nearer but not moving far enough away for Hawke to let down his guard.

Briggs pushed upward and moved with quiet, careful steps into the mouth of the tent. He’d rigged it only for sleeping and protection from another sudden storm so it was barely wide enough for both men to sit side by side. Hawke sat up, legs stretched in front of him and Briggs sat down near Hawke’s left foot, leaning towards him to speak.

“It’s been out there since just after midnight.” He lifted his left wrist and Hawke could see the outline of two wristwatches, his own chronograph and Briggs’ broken dress watch. “It’s made a complete circle around the camp in the last two and half hours.”

“You should have woken me,” Hawke said, pitching his voice to the whisper Briggs had used.

“Why?”

There really was no logical reason for both of them to be sleepless and anxious, hearts thudding and muscles clenching but Hawke was still annoyed.

“Any idea what it is? Did you see it?”

Briggs just shook his head. “Close enough to hear, not to see, and without my glasses…” He shrugged. “I’m guessing it’s about fifty yards out.” He looked out the mouth of the tent in the direction where the animal had gone and his expression made Hawke’s stomach churn. “It sounds big.”

“Yeah.” Hawke tried to remember what he knew about elk, moose and bears, but most of what he knew was based on the theory of mutual avoidance. Usually they wanted nothing to do with humans. “Why don’t I take the watch? You look like hell.”

Briggs opened his mouth as it to argue but yawned instead. Rubbing the back of his neck, he squinted at Hawke.

“You really think I can sleep?” He jerked his head towards the fire. “With that out there, stalking the camp?”

Hawke took the pistol from Briggs’ hand. “I think you’re gonna try. We both need you rested, Michael.”


	4. Four

Exhaustion had trumped anxiety and Briggs was stretched out inside the tent, hard asleep.

Hawke took a small, careful sip from one of their two bottles of water but that brief taste did little to satisfy the dryness in his mouth and throat and nothing at all to satisfy the gnawing hunger in his belly. Daylight was trying to come through the thick set trees and Hawke didn’t know whether it was the sunrise or something else that caused their persistent stalker to give up his circling some time after five. There had been a steady movement in the brush off to Hawke’s right, well beyond the downed Jet Ranger and then the sounds gradually decreased until he heard only the fire consuming wood and Briggs’ steady breathing.

He decided that the birds this far north must be late risers because the morning wake-up call didn’t start until nearly six.

Hawke stretched his legs, slowly, carefully. Briggs had strapped part of the tail rotor blade on the outside of Hawke’s right leg and an almost flat stick on the inside and tied the makeshift brace together with a silk tie that might have been white yesterday but looked closer to a mottled khaki now. He might not be mobile, even with the brace and Briggs’ cane, but Hawke was determined to be useful. Before Briggs had agreed to rest, he’d helped Hawke outside the tent, handed over Hawke’s gun and chronograph and fetched the water, tool kit, first aid kit and his briefcase. As soon as it was light enough to see, Hawke was going to fix the satellite phone and get them out of the woods before they had to spend another night wondering exactly what was out there, watching them.

The stack of papers from the briefcase had dwindled but about half remained unburned, kept in place with a large rock, and probably in reserve as a kindling supply as well as to keep the amount of ash down. Hawke picked up the rock and glanced through a few sheets of the case file Briggs had been reading in the helicopter.

Armen Cole was a former Firm agent who’d gone rogue and now wanted to come in but was unsure of his welcome. Or he was sure of it and didn’t like what awaited him. Hawke knew that Cole had contacted Archangel indirectly, through mutual contacts in foreign agencies and a meeting had been set across the Canadian border in the city of Lethbridge. Archangel had not wanted the exploratory meeting with Cole to be known inside the Firm, so no Firm transport, no Firm assistants, just Hawke and a Santini Air chopper. The meeting might have been unofficial but based on previous experience, Hawke was sure that Briggs had scheduled specific check-ins with Marella. Whether Marella knew the meet point or their flight path was something Hawke needed to ask when Briggs woke up.

The pages were out of order and it was frustrating to try to put together a cohesive narrative but the file was a good distraction from the pain in his ankle and the hunger he had no way to satisfy. And reading the Firm’s file on Cole was certainly more productive than his gloomy musings on the possibility of a quick rescue.

“You do understand the meaning of the word ‘classified’ that’s stamped in red on the top of every one of those pages, don’t you?”

Hawke looked up from his reading, and waved the page he was holding at the man kneeling at the edge of the tent, still rubbing sleep from his right eye.

“Yeah. What I don’t understand is why you were even going to meet with this guy. He’s scum.”

Briggs gave a small shrug, glancing around the tiny campsite as if he was hoping that somehow Hawke had magically produced coffee.

“He has information that would be useful. Plus it’s always somewhat satisfying bringing someone back from the other side whenever possible.”

Hawke scowled. “And thanks to him, we’re…” he waved a hand at the Jet Ranger, its cabin resting on an angle and held in position by three tree trunks, rotors askew, one snapped, and a tail in pieces on the ground.

“Cole is personally responsible for considerable mayhem, and quite possibly the capture or death of four of my agents but as far as I know, he does not possess the ability to influence the weather or create storms at will.”

Briggs stalked in the direction of the Jet Ranger and Hawke watched him all the way to the helicopter and then watched him yank open the hatch to the back passenger section a bit harder than was necessary.


	5. Five

Briggs had been gone for hours and Hawke was just starting to admit to himself that he might be worried.

The sun had passed directly overhead at least two hours ago and engrossed in the delicate removal of the satellite transmission equipment from Briggs’ briefcase, Hawke had given scant attention to the passage of time. The tool kit was fully stocked with anything that he or any aircraft mechanic might possibly need to do basic or emergency repairs on a Bell Jet Ranger but it was nearly useless for the task at hand. The tweezers from the first aid kit, a pair of needle nosed pliers and his Leatherman were the primary weapons in the battle.

He’d detached the phone from the briefcase, and double and triple checked every connection. He’d finished splicing the few broken wires he’d found but was stymied by a cracked chip. It was possible, not very probable, but possible that there was a similar bit of electronics in the Jet Ranger’s radio that could be re-purposed but he needed better mobility to check that. Or someone with better mobility.

Briggs had spent nearly an hour rummaging through the helicopter that morning finally emerging with a scowl and the magnetic compass, which he’d detached in a way that suggested it wouldn’t easily be reattached any time soon. He’d then used the knife to cut the tire from the nose wheel. With the top third cut off, it would serve as a rudimentary rubber bowl. He’d set off soon after, with the compass, knife, and the piece of tire, in search of a nearby stream or river. Hawke had watched as Briggs scored trees to mark his path until he could no longer distinguish the man from the trees and the shadows.

He had really expected Briggs back before now, even if only to retrace his steps and set out in a different direction.

He was under no illusions about their survival prospects. In the twenty-four hours since they’d gone down, no other aircraft had flown overhead, nor had he heard any. They had no food and if Briggs didn’t find water, they might live through the rest of the week but it wouldn’t be pleasant.

He heard movement in the brush and checked his Colt again, popping out the magazine and the chamber to ensure that it was fully loaded. Eight bullets. He could use up to six if the animal came back and was a threat, but he wanted to keep two in reserve.

The noises from the forest sounded different, not at all like those their circling stalker had made and within a few minutes, Hawke let out a shaky sigh, more relieved than he’d admit to distinguish Briggs trudging through the trees. He was limping a little but cradling the wedge of tire in both hands.

“’Bout time,” Hawke said, as he pushed the satellite radio and briefcase away from him so he could take the tire from Briggs without getting any water on the electronics. He looked at the water in the tire bowl and started to smile as he saw handfuls of huckleberries floating in it.

Briggs nodded, sank to a knee and then sat, hard and ungracefully on the ground next to Hawke.

“I came across a road, walked it I don’t know how many miles until it crossed a small stream. I washed that,” he nodded to the tire wedge, “as thoroughly as possible, filled this,” he pulled out the plastic water bottle they’d emptied between them earlier, “drank as much from the stream as I could before filling up the tire and then came on back. Never saw a vehicle, person, or any sign that the road has been recently used.”

“Where’s your vest?”

Briggs kicked off his dress shoes and stretched out his legs. The white leather shoes looked battered and ill-treated, hardly suitable footwear for the woods.

“I used it to mark the forest where I came out onto the road and I left it there along with a business card, just in case.” He shrugged. “I had a scheduled check-in upon arrival in Lethbridge, and another last night after I met with Cole.”

Hawke felt a smile tug at his mouth.

“Two missed check-ins, huh? Think Marella’s going to send the National Guard after you?”

“I damn well hope so or I’m taking her bonus back.” Briggs glanced at the dwindling fire and sighed. “Give me a minute to catch my breath and then I’ll gather some more firewood.”


	6. Six

Hawke sensed the man before he heard him. He raised his head, saw another human being and felt a surge of elation and relief so strong that it made him physically sag. He opened his mouth to shout a greeting and then noticed the man’s odd dress. He wasn’t a hiker or a camper and he wasn’t a ranger or from the forestry service. Staring at the stranger, it occurred to Hawke that he should have heard him first, that he’d been listening to the sounds of the forest all day trying to discern what was normal and what might signify danger.

And then he realized that the birds had gone quiet again.

“Michael,” he called to Briggs who was somewhere behind him trying to find enough firewood to get them through another night. He heard a grunted response from among the trees behind him. “ _Now_ would be good.” His eyes slid to the gun lying on the ground beside the briefcase and he shifted his right hand to where he could grab it quickly if needed.

An odd look passed across the face of the stranger, almost cunning, and his gaze moved from Hawke sitting on the ground to something or someone behind him: Briggs who carried an armful of the dead wood he’d gathered and, kneeling, dropped it to the ground near Hawke. Then he stood, brushing dirt and bits of bark from his hands and his clothes and took a step that put him between Hawke and the stranger.

“Hello.”

Hawke thought Briggs sounded cautiously friendly, which was good because something about this guy was setting off his internal alarms.

“I don’t suppose that we’d be lucky enough that you’re with the Forestry Service and had some means of calling for assistance?”

The man answered but his words were guttural and unfamiliar, without even a hint of a familiar phrase to indicate what language he was speaking.

“I’m sorry,” Briggs said. “I don’t know what you said, or even what language you used. Between the two of us,” he glanced down at Hawke, “we can communicate in English, Spanish, German and Russian. I’m told that my French is as bad as my Spanish but I do comprehend it and can communicate enough to get my point across.”

The man just stared at Briggs with a look that Hawke couldn’t quite decipher, a mix of triumph and greed or -- and Hawke shuddered as it crossed his mind -- _hunger_ that had his hand creeping toward the gun.

This time the words were completely different, the language just as unknown except for one word that was at least familiar -- _Micha'el_ – and one that was close enough that Briggs stiffened: _Archistrategos_.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “My name is Michael, and this,” he waved a hand down at Hawke but didn’t take his eyes off the stranger, “is Hawke. We ran into some bad weather and our helicopter crashed into those trees.” He pointed at it. “We need assistance or someone who can let the ranger station know where we are, or even just tell us where the nearest ranger station is located.”

“Tell me this isn’t Armen Cole, or someone he sent,” Hawke whispered but Briggs just waved a hand at him irritably.

“Can you help us?”

The stranger’s face contorted and he spat out a phrase and then turned and took three long strides away. Hawke blinked and then rubbed his eyes before narrowing them. The man was gone.

“What the hell was that?” Hawke almost shouted.

Briggs was squinting into the woods with a deep furrow in his brow.

“I only caught part of it. He definitely said ‘ _Princeps militiae coelestis quem honorificant angelorum_ ’ but I didn’t get the rest. My Latin is more than a little rusty.”

“So for those of us who don’t speak dead languages…?”

“It means ‘prince of the heavenly host of angels whom they honor…’” Briggs shook his head. “I’ve only heard that phrase in a religious context, Greek Orthodox or Roman Catholic. It’s not a reference most people throw around just because of my code name.”

Hawke felt a chill pass through him that had nothing to do with the angle of the sun or its fading rays.

“What do you make of the clothes he was wearing?

Briggs shrugged and when he turned away from the forest and looked at Hawke, his lips were pressed together. “At first I thought it was a tunic and some kind of cloak or mantle over it, but it’s entirely possible that it was a…”

“Hospital gown.” Hawke thought about it. “You thinking someone took a walk from a local loony bin?”

“As I said, it’s possible.”

“So,” Hawke said, “a man wearing some kind of long gray tunic or hospital robe suddenly appears in the forest without making any sound, speaks to us in a language neither you nor I have ever heard, calls you Archangel, or Archistrategos or whatever, and then disappears. Again without making any sound.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for all of it.”

But Briggs didn’t sound truly convinced.


	7. Seven

With Briggs on his left and Briggs’ cane in his right hand, Hawke managed to hobble from the fire to the Jet Ranger. He climbed into the pilot’s seat with only a little assistance and noted that it was a lot cleaner than it had been when he’d last sat in it.

“You cleared up the glass fragments?”

”Scattered them around the perimeter in hopes that it would keep the animal visitations down tonight.”

Hawke turned his head and studied Briggs, who looked as if the only thing holding him up was the arm propped against the side of the fuselage.

“They cover that in survival school?”

“No. It’s just a strong sense of self-preservation.”

Whatever the reason, Hawke was grateful. Briggs had handled all of the physical labor thus far and it was taking its toll, enough that Hawke had insisted that as he was better rested and had done little more than sit on his ass all day, that he should take the first shift.

“Hawke, if that thing comes back tonight, I’ll expect you to wake me.”

Hawke’s lips twitched into a smile. “Which thing?”

“Either of them. Wake me at two and I’ll take over the watch. The fire shouldn’t need replenishing until then.”

“Go lie down before you fall down,” he said gruffly.

“As soon as I get everything moved.”

Hawke frowned, but nodded and then watched in frustrated and irritated helplessness as Briggs finished shifting their possessions into or near the helicopter, which they’d decided was far more defensible than the tent. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Briggs climbed in the back passenger compartment, stretched out across the bench seat and after a few minutes of turning and shifting position, settled down and into deep sleep almost immediately.

Hawke continued tinkering with the satellite phone. He’d done everything possible with the tools at his disposal and the parts he’d salvaged from the helicopter’s radio. Based on the LED indicators, the satellite phone was now drawing power from its batteries and should work, but whenever he keyed in a number or frequency, absolutely nothing happened.

His stomach growled. The berries had taken off the edge but neither they nor the water was anywhere close to assuaging his hunger. Just knowing that Briggs could go back out tomorrow and bring back more water and berries had muted the unease he felt whenever his stomach growled, enough that he’d stopping thinking about reserving two bullets in the gun. Little as it was, the sustenance might be enough to buy them the time to find a way to get rescued.

He worked on the phone until the twilight yielded to true nightfall and he could no longer see what he was doing. Then he sat, left hand on the flashlight and right hand on the .45, listening to Briggs’ steady breathing and trying to decipher the noises of the forest at night.

That sudden whooshing sound might be the outspread wings of a great horned owl diving at a scurrying rodent.

The two pairs of yellow eyes gleaming in the low brush off to his right, away from the fire, might be coyotes, might be foxes.

It was just after midnight that the forest noises changed. He heard a gradual quieting of the small rustling sounds that he’d been hearing for hours and then in the distance, a louder crashing as if something of much greater weight was moving through the forest. Hawke took a slow and deep breath in an attempt to quiet a heart rate that had increased enough to be noticed, and tightened his grip on the gun.

Two hours later, the animal was slowly making its way around the outside perimeter of their crash site again, circling, circling, and after hours of intent listening to track its relative position, Hawke’s shoulder and neck muscles were tightly bunched and aching. It was not stalking them, he decided. He didn’t know of any predator that would give its prey that much warning. The endless circling of their camp seemed more like herding behavior, which didn’t make any sense.

It was off to their right, coming around in an arc that that would bring it about forty yards behind the helicopter, _again_ , as Hawke put down the flashlight and rubbed his neck, fingers digging into muscles so rigid that the massage was more painful than soothing. His fingers stilled and he swallowed, holding his breath and straining his hearing to verify that the noise had indeed changed, grown louder, grown closer, grown a _lot_ closer…

“Michael,” he said and when that didn’t bring an immediate reply, his voice grew sharper and louder. “Michael, wake up now. We’ve got company.”

Briggs’ muffled “What?” came at the same time that Hawke got his first glimpse of the animal and a second before two enormous black paws struck the nose of the helicopter hard enough to knock the helicopter sideways.

Hawke grabbed desperately at the control panel to keep his balance without loosening his grip on the pistol or doing any more damage to his ankle. He jammed his left foot against the copilot’s seat as a means of staying in place and heard Briggs grunt in pain as the helicopter tipped towards its left side and then rolled back into almost the same angle it had been. The thing outside roared and Hawke gave the missing windshield a worried glance.

“What the hell was that?” Briggs called from what sounded like the floor of the passenger compartment. “Are you okay?”

“Damned if I know.” His heart was pounding as if he’d been running. “Kind of reminds me of a Newfoundland dog.”

“That was a _dog_?” Michael’s voice rose on the last word. “A _dog_ knocked a 2000 pound helicopter sideways?”

“Well, a dog the size of a pickup truck,” Hawke said, and frowning, reconsidered. “A big pickup.”

“Great.” Vinyl and plastic squeaked as Briggs pulled himself back up onto the bench seat. “So what is Cujo doing now?”

It had backed off a bit after it hit the Jet Ranger and if he squinted, Hawke could almost make out a shape a few feet back in the trees. He could definitely hear it panting and could smell it. It smelled as if it had been rolling in rotten fish or a rotting carcass.

He glanced at his pistol and tried to estimate the creature’s weight and exactly how many bullets it would take to slow it down. Assuming it could be slowed down. He pushed off the copilot’s seat to shift his weight back into the pilot’s seat and heard a low growl. A warning.

“It’s just sitting there. I don’t think it wants us to move.”


	8. Eight

“You see a lot of classified stuff, right?” Hawke said “Government experiments, genetic mutations, military research…”

“A government conspiracy to engineer a dog the size of a truck? Exactly how hard did you hit your head yesterday?”

Which, Hawke decided, wasn’t really an answer.

“I don’t think it’s really a dog; it just reminded me of a dog.”

The flames in the campfire were darkening to red and growing low but Briggs’ tentative opening of the back hatch had drawn another low and ominous growl, so they were stuck in the helicopter. There was no question that if the animal had wanted to attack them, it could have done so. Hawke hadn’t seen much more than the paws and a brief glance of an equally massive head but it could have easily pulled him through the shattered windshield if it had wanted to. It didn’t even try. It seemed to be content to sit out there and watch them. As if it was waiting.

Hawke glanced at his watch, angled it several ways and with a sigh finally reached for the flashlight and clicked in on.

As if reading his mind, Briggs asked, “What time did the thing out there depart last night? Or yesterday morning, whichever.”

“Some time after five. About two hours from now.” He glanced behind him, unable to really see Briggs in the dark. “But he didn’t come this close yesterday.”

There was silence for about five minutes, each lost in his own thoughts.

“Are you sure it’s not a bear?”

Hawke shrugged but in the dark, it didn’t convey anywhere near the frustration and disbelief that he felt. Or the pain. His ankle throbbed and it was definitely past the time he should have taken more pain meds.

“ _Hawke_.”

He had thought Briggs was just being rhetorical so with a little irritation and a sigh said, “I don’t know _what_ it is.”

“No,” Briggs said sharply. “By the fire.”

Hawke leaned to his left, squinting through the low hanging tree branches directly in his line of sight. He could just make out something moving near the fire, something about the height of a full-grown man.

“Is that…”

”Yeah,” Briggs said, but he sounded hesitant and a little unsure.

Hawke looked back to his right, towards the animal, which was shifting a little as if moving from side to side but holding position, as if impatient. Or excited.

“He just….” Briggs paused and Hawke turned back towards the person near the fire. “I’m pretty sure he just walked _through_ the fire.”

Hawke sent a skeptical look towards where he knew Briggs was sitting. “You sure about that?” Hawke wasn’t. They were in the forest far from any of the light pollution shed by large human populations and it was the deep dark he’d learned in the jungle, where you couldn’t tell friend from foe except by voice unless you were inches from each other. Briggs was blind in one eye, his glasses had been broken in the crash and he was tired. Hawke wasn’t sure at all.

“Look for yourself,” came the quiet reply. “He kicked the big log over to the right.”

Hawke looked. A man-shaped figure backlit by the dying fire was striding directly towards the helicopter and stopped a few feet from its left side.

“It is time, Archistrategos.”

“Time for what?” Hawke demanded. The pain from his ankle and a continuing sense of unease he associated with this stranger made his tone brusque and defensive.

The man’s head turned abruptly in Hawke’s direction and Hawke felt his – _its?_ – stare as if it was something physical, something that crawled under his skin and up his neck into his brain.

 _Stay out of this, human_

The words were _inside_ his head, sliding around inside the gelatinous texture of his thoughts, sluggish and confused. He heard the back left hatch open and somewhere so far inside that he could barely hear his own voice, he was trying to shout out a warning to stay inside the helicopter.

“Time for what?” Briggs said from outside the helicopter. “What is it that you want?”

“You know that already, Micha'el.” It was a deep voice, low and musical in its cadence. “Did you think you could attempt to reclaim that soul from our power and we would not notice?”

Hawke could hear the animal panting as if it was closer now, just off to the right of the helicopter, close enough that he could smell its fetid breath.

“Reclaim…?” Briggs sounded puzzled. “Are you talking about my meeting with Armen Cole?”

“You were attempting to reclaim him, to bring him back to the light.” There was a pause and Hawke leaned forward, trying to get a better glance at the man. “I stopped you, I brought you here.”

“You stopped us?” Briggs’ disbelief was palpable. “ _You_ created the squall, the wind shear, the low ceiling? You crashed this helicopter?”

“I am _Belial_ ,” the man said. “You know my powers as I know yours, Archistrategos and you know that I will not yield what is ours by right and by choice.”

Backlit by the fire as he was, it was difficult for Hawke to actually see Belial. He – _it?_ – was a dark shape, nearly the same height as Briggs, and Hawke could make out only occasional glints of light off his torso. He opened his mouth to call a warning to Briggs, to warn him that this wasn’t an escapee from a hospital, that this wasn’t something to take lightly but there was a sharp pain in his throat and he made no sound at all.

‘Belial?” Briggs rolled the name as he spoke it, slowly, thoughtfully. “You say that you stopped me from meeting with Cole, from bringing him back to the Firm. I imagine he thinks I stood him up, so perhaps you’ve won. What now?”

“We do battle for his soul, as we have done for a millennia.” The voice sounded gently amused as if he and Briggs were sharing a private joke, an old joke. “Where is your armor, your sword, Archangel? How will you fight me?”

There was a pause.

“I have no sword or armor,” Briggs finally said, a long minute later. “An _Archistrategos_ , a Highest General, issues orders, directs his troops. Words are my weapons.”

 _Damn it, Michael, he isn’t what you think _, Hawke thought, and he swore, inside, in frustration at his soundlessness, at his uselessness. He glanced around inside the cabin looking for someway to communicate, to make Briggs understand.__

“Words are a futile weapon in battles such as ours,” Belial said. “And they have obviously not served you well. Which of my brother demons took your eye?”

“Moffet,” Briggs spat. “And if you consider him to be your brother…”

Hawke aimed the flashlight and clicked it on. Belial jerked his face away from the light and raised a hand, as if it had blinded him and Hawke heard Briggs’ sharp inhalation.

It was the stranger from the previous evening and yet it wasn’t. He wore the same robes of dark gray but over them he wore an armored breastplate and he was holding a sword in his right hand as if he knew how to use it, as if it was an outgrowth of that arm.

More importantly his face no longer resembled a man in his middle years. His nose was longer, broader, more like a snout than a nose, and the surface of his face was leathery and rough and olive, not as an undertone but the actual shade of the BDUs Hawke wore in Vietnam. In that olive complexion, his eyes, lidless gray things, stared out, lit by occasional sparks that seemed as if they were from a distant fire.

Belial turned back to them, snarling, and extended his sword. As Briggs took a step away, left hand behind his back scrabbling for the door latch, Hawke raised the pistol and fired.

The first bullet sparked off the armor but the second embedded itself in Belial’s upper right arm.

He screeched in pain or outrage, and words fell from his mouth, strange sounds that crashed into Hawke’s ears, ugly and violent.

The animal roared as if it was responding to Belial’s words and they might have been commands that Hawke simply didn’t understand. The helicopter shook and rolled to its left, throwing Hawke into the left seat. He opened his mouth and yelled without sound as his ankle caught on the foot pedals and the pain was so sharp and sudden that he blinked back tears. When he opened his eyes again, Briggs was on the ground and the demon’s sword was sweeping downward.


	9. Nine

Briggs rolled to his left and then lunged forward. The knife blade in his right hand glinted briefly in reflected firelight just before it sliced deeply inside Belial’s upper left thigh. If Belial had been human, it would have severed his femoral artery, ending the battle and without an immediate tourniquet, his life as well. As it was, Briggs had to pull away quickly, ducking just under a downward swinging cut that came so close to decapitating him that it left Hawke momentarily frozen in horror.

A _sword_ , Hawke thought frantically. _How the hell do you block a sword with a seven-inch KA-BAR blade?_

A piece of one of main rotor blades still rested across the nose of the chopper, one edge resting on the ground to Hawke’s right and the other, jagged from where it had fractured, was almost directly in front of him. He leaned through the broken windshield, knocking the remaining glass fragments out with the pistol and laid a hand on the blade. The animal growled, as if it knew what he intended, and Hawke knelt on the seat to get a better angle for leverage.

Each rotor blade, when intact, was about fifteen feet long and weighed over ninety pounds. This one was broken nearly in half, but at approximately seven feet long and forty-five pounds, it was going to be too heavy to be really maneuverable. The aluminum-alloy honeycomb core covered by aluminum was by no means a sharpened steel blade, but at least it was metal and Briggs could use it as a shield.

The animal growled again. Hawke’s shoulders strained as he tugged on the blade at its broken end, forcing the right edge up out of the weeds. A quick shove pushed the far end into the threatening beast, which yelped and snarled. He slammed the edge against the animal again and then pulled the blade to the left, up and over the nose, angling it downward.

He opened his mouth to call out, to tell Briggs to use the rotor blade to block those dangerous thrusts, but was only able to make a harsh creak from his vocal chords. It was starting to truly piss him off. He’d have to trust that Briggs could figure out how to use it.

Belial was limping after Briggs who’d ducked behind a stand of trees. Hawke grimaced as he watched Briggs keep his right shoulder angled toward Belial as he moved, protecting against an attack to his blind side.

It was a violent shove that sent the fragment of rotor blade sliding off the chopper’s nose, falling and crashing to the ground. The sound distracted both combatants but only momentarily; Briggs needed more time than that to reach the blade, pick it up and get back into a defensive position. Hawke picked up the pistol -- 6 bullets left – and as he raised it, he saw something moving in his peripheral vision, just not in time.

The animal slammed into the helicopter again and Hawke fell hard against the copilot’s door, pistol flying from his hand as he tried to catch himself. The jury-rigged splint for his broken ankle caught against the avionics console and he teetered on the edge of blacking out, pain flaring to such a level that _everything_ hurt, even breathing.

The helicopter rocked again and this time, it didn’t roll back to the right. With a shudder and a screech of tearing metal, it slid from where it had been pinned by tree trunks and stumps on an angle, crashing on to its left side against the packed earth and rocky ground. Hawke lay on top of the door, stunned and winded. His legs were above him on the seat and console. Everything loose in the cockpit - the flashlight, water bottle, open briefcase with satellite phone, and the tools -- had rained down upon him. He reached out blindly to his left, groping in the dark for where he’d thought he’d seen the gun and after a frustrated minute, grabbed the flashlight.

The gun had slid behind the left rudder pedal and Hawke stretched to dislodge it. With the sounds that the animal was making, now sniffing at the undercarriage, he couldn’t hear what was happening with Briggs and Belial but he knew he was running out of time.

A bullet wound to the arm and a knife wound that should have been fatal had barely slowed Belial. If Briggs was going to have a chance, Hawke needed to even the playing field. He wondered if the demon would still be able to swing that sword in the right direction without an eye or two.

He slid backwards on the door, gradually lowering his right leg, and pushing himself along with his left until he could get his left leg underneath him and pull himself into a standing position. With the door and window now resting on the ground, he had to lean through the battered windshield to take aim. Then his plan went to hell.

There was no way he was going to be able to put a bullet in Belial’s eye, or eyes, if he couldn’t find him. His night vision was about as good as it ever had been, the fire was dying and there was little contribution from the moon. He should have at least been able to detect movement.

Frustrated he reached down and fumbled with his left hand until he found the flashlight. Clicking it on, he swept the beam in a steady searching arc until he found them. He sagged at the knowledge of what his delay had cost.

Briggs was down. The demon was standing over him, prodding him with the tip of the sword and from what Hawke could see, Briggs wasn’t moving.

Hawke swore, and felt a surge of bitterness that he could make a sound now, when it didn’t matter.

He took aim and fired, watching in satisfaction as Belial’s head jerked from the force of the bullet. It staggered back and Hawke fired again, dropping the demon to its knees holding its head. The animal bellowed in outrage and Hawke braced himself in the windshield frame for another attack on the helicopter, perfectly ready to turn the gun on the oversized dog or whatever it was.

Briggs was still alive -- that he could see with Belial no longer blocking his view --gasping for breath and coughing blood. Hawke’s chin dropped to his chest for a second, granting himself a moment of desolation after he got a clear view of the damage the sword had done. He reached for the first aid kit, knowing that there was nothing in there that was going to make a difference, and hoisting himself through the windshield screen anyway.

He crawled awkwardly, keeping his right ankle in the air, the pistol and flashlight stuck into his belt, dragging the first aid kit in his left hand. In the minutes it took him to cross the twenty feet of ground, Briggs vomited blood twice, each an agonized grating sound, a violent effort, dreadful to witness.

Hawke reached Briggs, lifting him by the shoulders, ignoring the terrible groan it caused, and rested Briggs’ head and shoulders against his own thighs, hoping the elevation would keep him from choking on his own blood.

“Michael, lie still. I got you.”

As Hawke ripped open the largest gauze bandage in the kit, hopelessly inadequate, Belial climbed to his feet, one hand pressed against his head and took an unsteady step forward. Hawke pulled the pistol from his belt and aimed it.

“Angels cannot not die,” Belial said. His face was expressionless but his voice was slightly puzzled.

“You’re not an angel,” Hawke said and he pulled the trigger. That was five, he reminded himself. Three bullets left. “And I can damn sure hurt you.”

From his position lying on the ground again, Belial scowled and then he said quietly, “I was. Once.”

Hawke pressed the bandage down on the largest area of bleeding at the base of Briggs’ sternum. Before he reached for the next bandage, it was saturated with blood. He gave a harsh exhale and ripped the next bandage from its package, dropping it on top of the first.

“Angels cannot die,” Belial insisted. He was only a foot or two away, startling Hawke. “An Archangel can be defeated, but cannot be destroyed by my sword. He cannot be dying.”

Hawke glanced down. Briggs’ eye was glazed and unfocused, each breath a harsh rattle, a desperate gasp.

“Yeah,” he said pressing down on the bandage with one hand and searching through the kit for something, anything that might help. “But he’s not an angel.”


	10. Ten

It was jarringly bright when he opened his eyes.

And it was noisy, a quiet constant hum of people and machines and movement that most people wouldn’t have called noisy but it never relented.

His head ached, a dull, pounding ache that echoed through his teeth and down through his bones with a resounding reverb from his right ankle. He was lying in a comfortable bed and the cotton sheets, worn smooth from daily washings might not have been Egyptian but they were soft and rested gently against his skin.

He glanced around the empty room, taking note that the intravenous line taped to his left hand and some bulky contraption around his lower right leg were the only obvious evidence of treatment. There was another hospital bed between his and the door, but it was empty. On it, a pillow rested atop a folded blanket as if they were both waiting.

“I tell you, he’s not awake yet…”

Dominic Santini’s voice, rising in volume, trailed in from the other side of the door, presaged the turning of the handle, the door opening, Santini backing into the room, facing someone outside and continuing to talk.

“The doctors said a concussion and dehydration on top of the surgery they had to do on his foot. I swear I’ll let you know as soon as he’s awake.”

He let the door close and then turned around, the furrowed brows and tight expression melting away into bright eyes and an expansive grin. He opened his mouth and then shot a quick glance at the door. He moved towards the bed, smiling broadly.

“It’s about time you came back to the land of the living. We have half the Firm and the NTSB waiting to talk to you, not to mention me and Cait.”

He grinned and grabbed Hawke’s right hand between his two.

“That was a hell of a scare you gave me, String. I didn’t know if we were going to find you at all, much less in time.” He let go of Hawke’s hand and dragged a visitor’s chair closer. “We’ve been taking shifts and she went back to the hotel to get some rest. The doctors told us you’d come through the surgery on your leg just fine but then you didn’t wake up and we didn’t know what to think.”

Hawke blinked, dazed by the deluge, as if a dam had given way and Dominic’s words and emotions roared out, buffeting everything in its way.

“NTSB?” he said, scowling as he heard the hoarse croak.

“They want to know what caused the crash. For their investigation.”

Dominic sounded as if he wanted to know too, which was fair considering it was his helicopter that had been totaled in the crash, and because he considered Hawke one of his few remaining family members and had probably been out of his mind with worry.

“Honestly, Dom, I don’t remember any of it,” Hawke admitted, looking away, towards the sunlight streaming through the hospital window as he spoke. “Michael told me that we hit a squall line that we couldn’t get around or above. The wind shear put us in the treetops. I hit my head in the crash and when I woke up, my head was spinning so badly, I couldn’t tell you what happened.”

He glanced back and was alarmed at how the color had drained from Santini’s face and how his eyes slid away.

“What?”

“Archangel told you that?” Santini said quietly.

“Yeah.” He didn’t mean that to come out as defensively as it sounded.

“When did he tell you that?”

Hawke blinked, trying to remember the exact sequence of events but that first day after the crash was jumbled, with starts and stops and nothing in a coherent flow.

“After he pulled me out of the wreck and wrapped my ankle.”

Somehow that was the wrong thing to say. Santini’s heart was in his eyes and his heart was sinking.

“String,” he said in a harsh whisper. “When the Search & Rescue team pulled you out of the wreck, they said you were delirious from dehydration and from the pain. You kept talking about a demon, that he’d caused the helicopter to crash and…” Santini swallowed hard. “And you said the demon killed Archangel. You remember any of that?”

Hawke turned away, the thudding in his chest demanding that he recognize his increased heart rate. Belial had cut Michael nearly in half with that damn sword and there hadn’t been a thing Hawke could do except hold him as he bled to death in that godforsaken forest. The sunlight coming through the windows blurred and he brushed at his eyes with a fist

“Yeah,” he said gruffly.

“That what happened?” Santini’s voice was gentle and the worry that underlay the gentleness caught Hawke’s attention even as he continued to look blindly toward the windows.

“You tell me,” he answered, voice deliberately dull. “From what I hear I was delirious.”

He felt Santini grab his right hand, again enfolding it between the both of his, offering wordless comfort.

“You probably don’t want to tell that story to the NTSB and…” the hesitation was long enough that Hawke turned his gaze back to Dominic, “you definitely don’t want to mention it to anyone from The Firm. It might…”

“Michael didn’t make it, did he.”

His voice was flat and lifeless; it wasn’t really a question so he wasn’t surprised by the slow headshake from Santini.

“He was killed in the crash, String. A main rotor blade…” Santini choked up and swallowed hard. It was a minute before he spoke again. “His people are plenty upset about it enough without you talking about demons and swords and a battle over souls.”

A spark of something fired in his brain, cutting through the bleak fog that had settled over him when he’d started remembering. A main rotor blade and a sword…

“They blaming me?”

Santini sighed, a long slow exhale as if he was deflating. “No, I think they’re looking at the guy Archangel was supposed to meet, trying to determine if he had anything to do with the crash. They got about fifty people at the site, NTSB, FIRM, you name it, collecting evidence.” He gave a small shrug. “I think they’re looking for a needle in a haystack. In that forest, they’d be lucky to find all the missing pieces from the tail much less any hint that a SAM was used.”

He stopped talking suddenly and covered his mouth with one hand, wincing dramatically.

“ _Oh hell_ , I’m not supposed to discuss it with you, or speculate. Might impact what you tell the NTSB.” He scratched the hair above his ear. “I’m supposed to tell the doctors that you’re awake, and then there’s a line up of people who are going to want to talk to you.”

The thought of it was enough to make Hawke close his eyes and wonder if they’d believe that he was still unconscious. He needed time to sort through this, try to organize what he remembered into a logical sequence and test it for accuracy, and he reluctantly admitted, for sanity and credibility. And he needed to come to terms with the painful, hollow feeling in his chest, with the loss of another friend.

“Yeah,” he said.

As the chair scraped back, signaling Santini rising to his feet, Hawke had a sudden thought and opened his eyes.

“So how _did_ you find us?”

Expressive brows rose and fell and Santiti gestured extravagantly with his hands.

“After Archangel missed his check-ins, his people tracked the refueling stops you’d made. Guess Marella knew what credit card he’d use to pay. So they figured out the general route and then they tried to get a fix on his satellite phone. It wasn’t transmitting or receiving, but the last satellite ping,” he shrugged, “that’s what they called it, came from Northwest Montana in the Kootenai National Forest region. They started fly-overs and sent out alerts.”

Hawke’s head ached at the thought and then he saw Santini’s expression shift, eyes widening in wonder or disbelief.

“String, you have any idea of how the vest from Archangel’s suit ended up about ten miles from the crash site? With his business card in the pocket?”

 

 _Finis_


End file.
